I'm not under the afluence of incohol
by CharlieTheLessFamous
Summary: Sherlock. Anderson. Vodka. Enough said. Rated 'cos I'm paranoid! NOW EXTENDED!


**Okay... this time blame Eater-of-Cupcakes on Deviantart for the semi-prompt... thing. "I can just imagine John and Sherlock with beers!" which led to SOMEONE *cough* Nadeshiko Tenshi *cough* saying "just pictured Anderson and Sherlock having a drinking contest!" So yeah, here I go again. Yet another semi-slashy oneshot. Also, I don't drink, so I have no idea how much vodka it takes to get someone completely drunk. **

**Oh, and before I forget: fanart for "One giant leap... or not" is at http :/ nadeshiko-tenshi . deviantart . com / art / A-Giant-Leap- Page-2- 176796749 ? q= sort:time +gallery :nadeshiko-tenshi &qo= 0#/ d2x7myx (take out the spaces) :)**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. *curses under her breath***

John Watson stared at the other people sitting at the table in the pub with him. Sherlock, Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson. He blinked, trying to assure himself that he _really wasn't_ imagining this.

They were supposedly here because John had accidentally let slip to Sally that he and Sherlock were dating. Oops. So when she'd stopped spluttering, swearing, laughing, and choking, she'd insisted they all do something social. Thus; pub, on a Thursday evening.

To start with, it had all been rather... normal. Well, normal compared to what usually happened when you were with Sherlock. There weren't any bodies, for one. Or random puzzles. And no one had tried to kill him. Yet.

Anderson had commented on the fact that Sherlock rarely drank _that_ much, and somehow that had escalated in to a drinking contest. Which is why the two of them had already drunk about ten vodka shots. Which went some of the way to explaining why Anderson kept patting Sally on the head, and Sherlock was singing along with the pop music that was playing in the background.

"Sherlock."

"Mmm?" The detective tried to look at John, but failed. Possibly due to the fact he was actually seeing two Johns.

"I think you've had enough to drink now."

"Haven't!"

"I'm not going to argue... but you have."

"Haven't..." This time, Sherlock slurred slightly. He frowned. "Well... maybe. John?"

"Yes?"

"Why is the floor all tilting?"

"...Yes. You are drunk."

"Am not!" Sherlock downed two more shots in an attempt to keep up with Anderson, who was now half asleep. He would have being fully asleep, but Sally had gotten annoyed with him and moved to sit next to Lestrade, resulting in Anderson hitting his head on her now empty wooden chair.

"Giv... giving up yet?" he slurred, swaying slightly. Sherlock shook his head and winced. John decided to put an end to this before they killed themselves, and moving the bottle out of reach.

"Wh-hy?" Sherlock whined.

"Just _because_."

"I'm not as trunk as you dink I am!"

"...You just proved my point, Sherlock."

"Oh..."

It took almost an hour to get home, mainly because Sherlock was completely incapable of walking in a straight line. John then went straight to bed, whereas Holmes collapsed on the sofa.

Until an hour later, when he very quietly and gently slipped in to tp bed next to John, gave him a hug, kissed him, and murmered "Love you..."

John smiled sleepily, and turned off the recording equipment. "Love you too."

After all, he had to rely on traditional methods to get his blackmail material.

(*) *A few days later* (*)

"That'sss s-s-seventeeeen nauuww..." Anderson slurred, pushing himself back upright.

"I'llsh b-beat youuu sshtill A-andershuunn youu f-fruit cakesh" Sherlock retorted. He blinked sleepily, and then downed another pint of whatever-the-hell-it-was-they-were-drinking.

Anderson picked up his glass to do the same, but spat most of it back out when Sherlock swayed, blinked, giggled, and promptly passed out, whacking his head on the bar as he did so. Anderson started to laugh, but he still had (some) beer in his mouth, so he choked and coughed instead.

Sherlock came round fairly quickly once Anderson tipped a glass of lemonade down his neck. At that point, the barman decided it might be a good idea to throw them out.

So, Sherlock Holmes and Anderson were staggering down the street, leaning on one another in a vague attempt to stay upright, and singing. Nursery rhymes. Loudly. And out of tune.

Which is why they were now sitting in police cells. Well, Sherlock was. Anderson's wife had already bailed him out and dragged him off home. John, on the other hand, was standing with Lestrade, howling with laughter.

"'Ssht not f-fhunn-he!" Holmes told him, trying to focus on his flatmate and failing miserably, mainly due to the fact he could actually see two Johns, and was having trouble deciding which was which.

"I think I might leave you there. It might prevent you... oh, who am I kidding? You'll never stop doing stupid things, will you?"

"Pr...proper-bly nhot..."

"Hmm. Don't. Please."

*FIN.*


End file.
